


Withdrawal

by sheerrloockk



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Christmas, Drug Use, First Kiss, M/M, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 05:37:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheerrloockk/pseuds/sheerrloockk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At sixteen, Sherlock hated pretty much everything. He hated his brother, his father, and trips to France to visit Grandmamma. He hated the boys at Harrow who bullied him and he hated his mother because she did nothing about it. There were two things that Sherlock didn’t hate. He didn’t hate his violin and he didn’t hate John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Withdrawal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [logastellus (Cataclyzmic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cataclyzmic/gifts).



> Teenlock! I wrote Christmas Teenlock! Okay, important. It's not exactly in the canon timeline. It's set in the 1990s, so no cell phones, internets, etc. In the canon timeline they were born in the 70s, but in this fic, it's more likely that they were born in the 80s. Hope you like it! Also, thanks to Heidi, for beta-ing, and as a result, this fic is for you! Your need for a prompt ironically prompted this fic. :P Merry Christmas!

The Watsons moved into the little house around the corner when Sherlock was eight. And Sherlock, being the inquisitive child he was, climbed the tree on their front lawn and spied on the family inside. Mr. Watson was a sturdy looking man with blond hair, broad shoulders, and a kind face. He dropped a cardboard box onto the floor of the kitchen and kissed Mrs. Watson on the cheek. Mrs. Watson was extremely thin, with (dyed, Sherlock noted) red hair that fell to her shoulders. The daughter, whose name Sherlock didn’t hear, was “guarding” the moving van. Sherlock snorted at the thought. What could a fourteen-year-old girl possibly do to deter an assailant?

            “John!” called Mr. Watson. “Quit exploring, buddy, we’ve still got boxes to unpack!” John, their son, bolted out the front door and jumped onto Mr. Watson’s back. Sherlock heard them laughing from his branch. He watched quietly as John and Mr. Watson toted boxes from the van into the house with fascination. John Watson was doing what had to be uncomfortable, unrewarding physical work, but he did it with a smile on his face. Interesting.

            Eventually, the van was empty. Mr. Watson handed the man driving it some money and laid his arm around John’s shoulder, pulling him into the house. Mr. Watson went into the kitchen to help Mrs. Watson unpack the plates and utensils and pans and whatever else went in there, but John climbed the short stairs up to the second level. Sherlock climbed the tree higher to follow him. Lucky for Sherlock, John opened the door to the bedroom facing the tree. There was a bed set up and huge pile of boxes. John stared at them for a moment, visibly sighed, and sat down on his bed. He was just leaning over to begin his long, arduous unpacking process, when Sherlock, clinging tightly to the thick branch, leaned over and rapped his knuckles against the windowpane.

            John jumped up and looked around, afraid. He looked out the window and saw Sherlock dangling there on the branch. For a moment, his face split into a grin, before it vanished and he walked over to the window. He unlocked it and pulled it open.

            “Hello,” said Sherlock.

            “What are you doing in a tree?” asked John.

            “Spying on you,” said Sherlock.

            “You’re not supposed to let the person you’re spying on know about it,” said John, brow furrowing. “That’s just not how spying works.”

            “I know,” said Sherlock. “But I figured I wanted to actually talk to you.”

            “Did you watch us move in?” asked John, raising an eyebrow.

            “Yes.”

            “That’s weird.”

            “Oh,” said Sherlock, biting his lip. “Not good?” John paused and appraised Sherlock for a moment before shrugging.

            “Bit not good, but it could be worse,” he said. “As long as you don’t murder me.” Sherlock laughed.

            “I’m Sherlock,” he said.

            “John,” said John, holding out a hand. Sherlock reached out and took it. As John wrenched his hand up and down in a very enthusiastic handshake, Sherlock’s footing came loose. John let go, the balance was off, and Sherlock plummeted from the tree. There was a shriek from the kitchen. John’s head popped out the window.

            “Hey! Are you okay?”

            Sherlock was not exactly okay. He’d broken his arm and received an appropriate reprimand for spying on the new neighbors. But he’d met John, and John visited him in the hospital, and from then on, the two were inseparable.

 

            At sixteen, Sherlock hated pretty much everything. He hated his brother, his father, and trips to France to visit Grandmamma. He hated the boys at Harrow who bullied him and he hated his mother because she did nothing about it. He hated the other social outcasts at school who tolerated his presence because they had no choice. He hated the teachers because they were just as unbearably stupid as the students. He hated the Headmaster because he wouldn’t let Sherlock out of taking French classes, despite the fact that Sherlock was almost _fluent_.

            There were two things that Sherlock didn’t hate. He didn’t hate his violin and he didn’t hate John Watson. Although, he supposed he also didn’t hate mail days, because those days brought letters from John. Unfortunately, they also frequently brought letters from Mummy or Father, advising him to keep his upper lip stiff and soldier on. Occasionally, there would be a letter from Mycroft, but Sherlock never bothered to actually read those. Pompous arse.

            Sherlock had written John a letter the week before with his good news. He and John were both graduating this semester. Everything was officially set in motion, and Sherlock would graduate and come home to Sussex in time to attend John’s graduation ceremony. Then the two of them would have the summer to spend free of responsibility before they both packed their bags for University. Sherlock was headed to Oxford, and John, to Westminster in London.

            Sherlock had a bit over a week left of the hellhole that was Harrow School, but today was mail day, and he couldn’t help but feel a fluttering of excitement as the postman dropped a letter into his hands.

            _‘John’s writing on the envelope,’_ Sherlock noted and bolted towards his room. With the door shut and locked, he tore through the paper. He unfolded the pages and read eagerly.

            _Dear Sherlock_ ,

            _That’s amazing! Why didn’t you tell me before? I bet it’s because you wanted to rub it in my face that we’re graduating together. Because I’m an idiot, just like everybody else, and you’re  a genius. Well, have it your way! Congratulations, by the way. I’m sad I can’t come to your graduation ceremony, but I suppose you wouldn’t really want me to, considering how much you hate the place. But you’ll come to mine, right? I want to show off my upper crust public school mate off to all the rugby team._

_Good luck on your finals, not that you need it. I have to say, I’m really excited for this summer. Mum says I can have Dad’s car, so we finally have a way to get places. Go see films at the cinema or go up to London for a football match. I can hear you rolling your eyes and muttering ‘Boring!’ from here, but you’ll deal with it, because I’m driving! I mean, I’ll have to get my license, but I’m driving. We’re going to have so much fun though. It feels like it’s our last summer, but I know it’s not. Maybe if we were boring, normal friends it would be, but I know you’re always going to be a part of my life. Sorry to get all mushy on you, but I figure now’s as good a time as any. We’re graduating. It’s a time for introspection. You’re my best friend, Sherlock. We’re going to have a cracking good summer, and a bloody great time at Uni. And every single break, we’ll see each other, and it’ll be like no time has passed at all. Can’t wait to see you next week, when you get this._

_John_

            Sherlock laid back on his bed and let John’s letter lay against his chest. He closed his eyes. He and John rarely talked about their friendship. It was easy, like breathing, or walking, or hearing. They fought – frequently, actually – but Sherlock knew that he and John would always have each other. He relied on John’s presence in his life more than he relied on his family.

            He reread the letter, lingering on the last bit. His heart thudded in his chest with bittersweet feelings. ‘Best friend,’ it said. Sherlock’s heart twisted. He let out a deep, shuddering breath. He was John’s best friend, and while that was spectacular, it was all that Sherlock would ever get. When he was at home, he was able to swallow up the bitter pill of unrequited love with the joy of John’s presence, but here at school, sometimes it was all Sherlock could do to keep from crying. He wouldn’t cry, though. There was nothing to cry about, as he reminded himself frequently. John cared for him, loved him albeit in a friendly way. That was better than nothing, and he would take what he could get, just as long as John was always there.

            There was a soft knock on the door and Sherlock’s roommate, skinny, pimply Victor Trevor entered.

            “Letter from your boyfriend?” asked Victor, throwing himself onto the bottom bunk of their bunk beds. Sherlock gritted his teeth.

            “He’s not my boyfriend,” he said. Victor snorted.

            “Yeah, alright,” he said. Victor got back up and walked back over to the door. He locked it soundly and reached into his pocket. Sherlock’s sharp blue eyes met Victor’s pale green ones with a mischievous glint between them. Sherlock set John’s letter down on his pillow and hopped down from the top bunk. Ah, yes. There was a third thing Sherlock didn't hate.

            “Thank god,” was all Sherlock said before he snorted more cocaine.

 

            Sherlock was so relieved to be high for the graduation ceremony. It was so _boring_. All the professors he hates making idiotic jokes about class and how well all these useless lumps of meat are going to do in the ‘real world,’ as if this world at school was somehow less real. He wasn’t even allowed to sit next to Victor, who sat farther back, and was no doubt subtly snorting coke the whole time. No, he had to sit beside Jeffrey ‘Wingman’ Herbert, the pride of Harrow’s football team, who constantly smelled like a locker room. If Sherlock had been sober, he probably would have thrown up.

            Sherlock thought about throwing up on purpose, just so Herbert would take a shower. He bit back a snicker.

            It took forever to get through the list of names and the handing out of diplomas. Absurdly long for how many students were graduating, really. Sherlock shook Headmaster Simmons’s hand for as brief a time as possible, posing for the photo, and then walking swiftly back to his seat. It was almost over. He could feel himself sobering up.

            There was one more night here before he moved back to Sussex. He would need to restock his stash before he left, otherwise he would go mad with boredom. He doubted that his parents would let him see John every day, despite the fact that he’d graduated and was going away to uni in the fall. They’d still try to _control_ him, and Sherlock did not intend to be sober on days he was forced to stay in the house and _spend time_ with Mummy or Mycroft.

            After the ceremony, Father insisted on taking Sherlock out to dinner. They were at an incredibly posh restaurant in London, with Sherlock seated uncomfortably close to Mycroft (he’d put on weight _again_ ). Luckily, Sherlock had gotten a few moments alone with Victor to get his fix. Sherlock just hoped it was enough to get him through the evening.

            Mummy asked a number of dull, predictable questions about school (awful) and friends (as if Sherlock had any real ones) and grades (impeccable). Father informed Sherlock that he was adequately proud of him, and to not muck it up at Oxford. He then spent the rest of the dinner talking with Mycroft about _work prospects_. Sherlock stabbed the food on his plate moodily, moving it around but not actually eating any of it. He wasn’t hungry anyway.

 

            Sherlock’s first full twenty-four hours being sober is his first day back in Sussex, and he sees John. The two of them spend all day in John’s bedroom, and they reminisce about their first meeting.

            “I feel like that set the tone for our whole friendship, to be honest,” said John, laughing. John’s bare feet are beside Sherlock’s head, and Sherlock’s are far past John’s head on John’s pillow.

            “What do you mean by that?”

            “Well, you do something stupid, we both get yelled at, and then we’re better friends for it,” said John.

            “Excuse you, last winter, exactly whose idea was it to go skinny dipping in the pond?”

            “Mine,” said John. “And yet, you agreed.”

            “Well we were drunk,” said Sherlock.

            “You would’ve anyway,” said John.

            “Probably,” agreed Sherlock. They lapsed into silence. John fidgeted on his bed. Sherlock hadn’t felt this content in ages – not since spring break, when he’d come home and visited John last.

            “How’s it feel to be done?” asked John.

            “Relieving beyond belief,” said Sherlock earnestly. “I’m so glad to be rid of that place, I can’t tell you.”

            “Even the architecture?”

            “Shut up,” said Sherlock, batting his hand against John’s thigh. “You asked me if there were any redeeming qualities to Harrow, and I answered you.”

            “I was expecting something more along the lines of ‘hot girls nearby,’ but you said the _architecture_.”

            “Hot girls nearby isn’t Harrow,” said Sherlock. “And for the record, there are no hot girls nearby.” The boys of Harrow had lamented it often enough. Not that it mattered to Sherlock. No girl, no boy, no human being in existence, gender be damned, could match up to the person beside him on the bed.

            “Pity,” said John. Sherlock said nothing. “Well,” continued John, “my grad ceremony is in three days. You’re coming, right?”

            “Absolutely,” said Sherlock. “At some point this summer, we’re going to France to visit my grandmother. You should come.”

            “Yeah? You’ve never invited me before.”

            “Well, our lives are changing this autumn,” said Sherlock, shrugging, though John couldn’t see it. “No point denying that. And I just… want to spend as much time with you as possible.” He was certain he could hear John grin. He felt warm fingers brushing his own, and suddenly, John was holding his hand.

            Sherlock’s eyes slid shut, compressed tightly just in case it wasn’t real. But it was, _it was_. Sherlock’s heartbeat burst into a sprint. He tried to stay still, to betray nothing with his body language. John squeezed his hand and his thumb stroked Sherlock’s palm once.

            “I know what you mean,” he said.

 

            Sherlock felt ill. He hadn’t had any cocaine in days. Between sleeping, Mummy, and John, Sherlock hadn’t found time. But now, ah, at last, it was time to rid himself of the queasiness in his stomach. He threw his head back as the chemicals drenched his system. He giggled with relief. The world was in sharp focus again. He could see _everything_. Particularly, he saw, when he looked over at the clock on his bedside table, that he was going to be late to John’s graduation.

            He made it just in time. He got a seat to the side, away from the families with small, crying children. He watched a similarly boring set of speeches to those at his own graduation, but this time, instead of smelling sweat, he _saw everything_. He was extraordinary naturally, but dear lord, when he was like this he was something more. Superhuman. Perfect. Practically a _god_.

            John walked up to receive his diploma. He was perfect. The rays from the sunset seemed to glitter in his hair. Even from his distance, Sherlock could see his arm muscles working as John shook hands with his teachers. He was so _fucking_ hot. Sherlock had thought of John innumerable times, thought of John touching him, kissing him, even maybe loving him. But that John wasn’t real, because the John Sherlock knew would never love him. For any number of real, good reasons, John would never fall for Sherlock.

            John looked up into the crowd and his eyes locked with Sherlock’s. John grinned and waved, lifting his diploma as if to say, _“I made it!”_ Sherlock didn’t wave back. He stood up and left, headed to the bathroom.

            He needed more cocaine.

 

            John found him a few hours later, sweating and shivering, in the bathroom. He’s snorted everything he’d brought with him to John’s graduation, which was – as he now knew – a bit too much for one go.

            John looked mutinous. He pulled Sherlock up into a sitting position and threw his cardigan around Sherlock’s shoulders.

            “You fucking idiot,” snarled John. “This is why you left early last night? This is my fucking graduation from school, Sherlock, you only get one of those! And look at you!” He sounded disgusted, but Sherlock could not help but giggle. Of course John was disgusted with him.

            He must have said it aloud, because John responded to the thought. “Of course? Of _course_! Look at you! You’re a wreck. And who bloody knows how long you’ve been doing this to yourself.”

            “Since since since last autumn,” Sherlock said immediately. He giggled again and pulled John’s cardigan closer around himself. It smelled like John. John sighed.

            “You are so fucking lucky I’m not going to turn you in right now,” he said. “I’m going to go explain to my parents that you are taking me out to dinner and are calling a cab. We will get to my house before my parents – or else – and you’re going to spend the bloody night sobering up, and we’re having a bloody fucking _talk_ about this in the morning.”

            “Mmmhm,” Sherlock agreed, grinning slackly up at John. His head was so heavy! His brain was what was heavy, that’s what’s heavy. The world was bit… too sharp right now. He just wanted John to stay here and hold him until it was less harsh.

            “Be right back,” John assured him, still looking disgruntled. Sherlock sat in the men’s room, waiting. It felt like hours. No one came in or went out. The dirty mirror twinkled in the fluorescent light if Sherlock moved his head back and forth. He speeds up his head movements, because the light changes, sometimes colour, sometimes placement, sometimes brightness, and Sherlock doesn’t know _why_ , but it _does_.

            “Sherlock! Stop it, stop it!” John grabbed Sherlock’s jaw and stops his head from moving back and forth. He looked terrified. Sherlock giggled again. Even in this terrible lighting, John still looked beautiful. _Sexy_. Apparently he hadn’t said that one aloud, much to his relief.

            John hoisted him up to his feet, Sherlock’s arm around his shoulders. Sherlock held on tight, partially because he actually would fall to his knees without John’s support, but also because it wasn’t often that he got to touch John like this. He hoped he’d remember it when he sobered up a bit.

            “We’ve got some time,” said John. “My sister wants some ice cream, so they’re going to stop somewhere on the way home. Mum said earlier that it’s nice out, so they’ll probably eat it outside, but that’s not a guarantee. We’ve got to _move_.”

            “’Kay,” said Sherlock. “Move. Walking. Am I calling a cab? I’ve got his number on speed dial, you know.” John sighed, obviously still agitated. Sherlock didn’t understand why. He had it on reasonably good authority that he was much more agreeable when he was high.

            “We’re not at Harrow, Sherlock,” he said. “Your favorite cabbie can’t drive here and take you home.”

            “Well that’s good,” said Sherlock, chuckling. “Tired of giving blowjobs for rides…” John froze next to him, but quickly relaxed and continued pulling Sherlock along towards the main road.

            “I called us a cab,” John said shortly. When they reached the intersection, a cab smoothly pulled up right in front of them and John shoved Sherlock into the backseat. He gave the cabbie his address and turned his attention back to Sherlock. Sherlock, for his part, was starting to feel worse and worse. His teeth were chattering and his eyes were falling shut.

            “J-J-J-John,” he managed, and John tapped a finger against his cheek. Sherlock’s eyes flew open.

            “Don’t sleep,” John said. “Wait until we’re back at my house, okay?” Sherlock nodded. He was starting to feel ill, disgustingly queasy, like he was sobering up almost, but he knew he wasn’t, because his mind was still racing. His mind was moving so fast, but his mouth couldn’t keep up with his thoughts.

            “I feel… sick…” Sherlock said.

            “Don’t you dare puke in my cab, boy,” said the driver, who stamped on the gas. The car bolted forward, and the driver maintained the speed all the way to John’s house.

            The windows were dark. No one was home yet. John hastily unlocked the front door and pulled Sherlock in after him, locking it back up behind him. He shoved Sherlock up the stairs and into the bathroom just in time for Sherlock to begin throwing up. Sherlock threw up for the better part of half an hour, and when he was finally finished, he threw up one more time. John laid him down in his bed, got a bucket (just in case), and patted down his forehead with a cold compress.

            Sherlock giggled again.

            “Can you stop giggling please?” asked John.

            “Everyone likes me better when I’m high,” said Sherlock.

            “I don’t,” said John flatly. Sherlock’s eyes bugged out in surprise.

            “Really?” He sounded incredulous.

            “Really,” replied John. “Now it’s time for you –” But Sherlock interrupted him.

            “Why?”

            “Why what?”

            “Why don’t you like me better when I’m high?” John sighed in frustration.

            “Because I’ve known you for almost nine years, Sherlock, and I have never needed you to be something you aren’t. You’re great as you are. You don’t need things like this to make you somehow worthy of people’s kindness or attention or whatever else you want. You just have to be yourself with me, and I’ll always be there for you. You don’t have to change yourself.”

            “But it’s _boring_ when I’m not high,” said Sherlock. “ _Boring_ stupid people and they’re just _boring_. I can’t deal with how _boring_ the whole human ex-ex-existence is.”

            “That’s because you have no goals and no purpose, alright?” snapped John. “I’m not bored because I want to be a doctor. I’m working for something. I’m going to go to school and get a job and do something high pressure, because you’re right, life is boring when nothing’s good enough for you.” Sherlock stared at him.

            “What should I do then?” he asked.

            “Figure out something to do with your life and stop taking drugs,” answered John. Sherlock giggled again. He reached out and grabbed John’s hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing the back of it. John was oddly touched, despite his annoyance with the situation.

            “Goodnight, Sherlock,” said John. “Go to sleep.” Sherlock nodded and held tightly onto John’s hand.

            “G’night, John,” he said, closing his eyes. “I love you.” John jumped, but Sherlock did not seem to notice.

            “What?” he asked, confused. Sherlock giggled.

            “I _loooove_ you,” he said again. “Love you, love you, always loved you. In love with you! Want to _kiss_ you!” He giggled again. “Good night…” His grip on John’s hand loosened as he fell asleep.

            John stared at Sherlock’s profile on his pillow, mouth open and smushed against the fabric. Sherlock’s dark hair clashes with the off-white sheets – made so from years of washes. They were the same sheets that he and Sherlock had slept on in youthful, innocent sleepovers. They were the sheets where John had lost his virginity to a girl named Karrie, who had broken up with him a month later. They were the sheets where he and Sherlock sat for hours, playing video games on John’s ancient Super Nintendo system. Sherlock always won and stuffed John’s face into his pillow like the immature, sore winner that he was.

            Sherlock _loved_ him. He’d even clarified what kind of love he’d meant in his inebriated state. He’d kissed the back of John’s hand, and John could feel the memory of his lips against his skin.

            John snorted. Well, at least he already hadn’t planned on sleeping tonight.

 

            Sherlock woke up, and he had no idea how he’d ended up in John’s room. His last memory was John waving as he received his diploma. He opened his eyes and shut them again immediately with a hiss. There was a scuffle beside him and it became noticeably darker behind Sherlock’s eyes.           

            “Sorry,” muttered John. “You can try opening your eyes again if you want now. It’s darker.” Sherlock obeyed. It was still a bit too bright, but John’s room faced eastward, so there wasn’t much to be done. Sherlock looked around and then down at himself. He wasn’t covered in his own vomit, so it could not have been that bad. He looked at John, who was seated in an old wooden rocking chair and looking back at him almost expectantly.

            “Um,” was all Sherlock could think to say. John snorted.

            “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said. “You better have the decency to ask me the question.” Sherlock winced. John had returned to full volume.

            “What… happened?” Sherlock asked, unsure if this was the question John wanted from him. It seemed to be so – John replied immediately.

            “You were fucking high as a bloody kite, Sherlock,” said John. “It was my graduation night, and I spent it taking care of you. Not that taking care of you is unreasonable, but Jesus, if you’d accidentally gotten hurt I wouldn’t be angry! But no, you got ridiculously high, so fucking high you couldn’t speak or walk or _function_. I had to bail out of a few party plans – which, by the way, you were invited to – because I had to take you home and nurse you back to health. What do you have to say for yourself?”

            “I’m sorry,” said Sherlock, and he meant it. “I’m sorry I ruined your day, John. I was being selfish and I didn’t think… I figured that if we were going to parties, you would want me to be… sociable.”

            “Yeah, I heard a bit about that last night, too,” said John. “Sherlock, you do not need to get high to make people like you.” Sherlock snorted.

            “You sound like my brother,” he said.

            “Then for once, Mycroft is right,” said John. “Not everybody is going to like you. Not everyone is going to like me, or anybody. But I don’t want you to get wrapped up in some addiction just because you’re bored or because you want other people to like you.” Sherlock was startled – John had already defeated his counter point. It was almost like they’d had this discussion already.

            John bit his lip. He looked nervous. He got up off of the rocking chair and sat down on his bed beside Sherlock. He laid a hand on Sherlock’s knee, stared at it for a fraction of a second, as though regretting the action and contemplating taking it back. He brought his blue eyes up to meet Sherlock’s.

            “You said something else when you were high last night,” he said, very seriously. Sherlock’s stomach dropped and he already knew what it was. He was frozen with terror. What would John say? What would he _do_? “You told me that you were in love with me.” Sherlock’s hands were shaking so he pulled them back under the blankets. He grabbed John’s sheets in an effort to stay grounded. John looked like he wanted a response, a confirmation or denial, but Sherlock was incapable of speaking. He felt tears pricking at the back of his eyes, but he would _not_ cry. He focused all of his energy just on that.

            “Is it true?” John asked. Sherlock tightened his grip on the sheets and nodded jerkily. He was biting his lip so hard that he thought it would bleed at any moment.

            “Bloody hell, Sherlock,” said John, moving his hand from Sherlock’s knee and up to his face. Sherlock gasped at the unexpected contact. “Calm down. It’s going to be alright.” Sherlock chuckled and looked away, pulling himself from John’s grasp, and John could hear the sarcasm in the noise.

            “I’m going to make you a deal. Or an ultimatum, if you’d rather call it that.” Sherlock looked back at John, intrigued. “You can have me,” John said, and Sherlock’s heart pounded in his chest, his eyes widened. “You can have me on _one condition_ ,” said John. “You have to stop with the drugs. That’s your choice. Me, or the drugs.”

            “Hah!” Sherlock said, speaking for the first time in over five minutes. “Thanks for whoring yourself out for my well-being, John, but I really don’t want to be a pity fuck.” He flipped the covers off his legs and hoped he could stand, because he was about to walk home. His feet hit the floor before John got in front of him.

            “It’s not,” said John, dropping his hands onto Sherlock’s shoulder, effectively keeping him in place. “I promise you, it isn’t pity. You said that last night, and I was so confused. I didn’t know why I was so happy that you would love me.” His hands moved to Sherlock’s neck, his thumb stroking behind Sherlock’s ear. “But you did, you said it about seven times –” Sherlock groaned “– and you even explained what you meant. You said you loved me, you’d always loved me. That you were _in love_ with me. And then that you wanted to kiss me.” Sherlock brought a hand up to his face to cover the blush he could feel spreading across it. John chuckled.

            “I didn’t –”

            “Shush,” said John. “And I was staying up all night to watch you. Only _you_ would give me something like that to think about to keep me awake. And I thought about it. I thought about all the great times we’ve had.”

            “Great times and nostalgia do not a romantic relationship make, John,” said Sherlock. “Stop it. Stop toying with me.”

            “I’m not!” said John. “If you’d let me finish!” Sherlock sighed and gestured that John should finish his speech. “Thank you. I was thinking about all the great times we’ve had. How close we are. How much time I spend thinking about you in classes. How much I wished my parents could afford to send me to Harrow with you, so I could knock those arseholes sideways if they ever tried to hurt you again. How much I bloody hate it when you would leave to go back there. How much I miss you, all the time, even over summers, even when you’re just down the street, I miss you. And I know you. I know exactly how bloody annoying you can get. I know your flaws and I know how you light up a room when you’re excited about something. I look at you, and I see something more than my best friend. We’ve been… more than just best friends for a long time, but I never even realized it. You did, though, because you always find out things before me. I just wish I’d realized it when you did.”

            Sherlock’s lower lip was trembling, but he was determined not to cry. He let out a shaky laugh instead. “If you had, we’d be around our fifth anniversary already.”

            “Jesus,” said John, rolling his eyes. “So long.” He leaned down and kissed Sherlock’s forehead. “I mean it, though, Sherlock. I want to hear you choose. You can have me, and everything that entails, if you swear you’ll never go back to the drugs. I can’t be with you if you use them. I _want_ to be with you, so you have to choose. Right now. I’m yours. But you have to want me more than you want cocaine.”

            “I swear,” said Sherlock immediately, wrapping his arms around John’s stomach and clinging. “I promise. Never again. I want you, I want you so much more than I want cocaine. I’m not addicted. It doesn’t matter. I promise, I promise, John.”

            “Okay,” said John, cupping Sherlock’s jaw and pulling his chin up to look at him. Sherlock’s eyes were swimming with unshed tears. John lowered his head and kissed Sherlock beneath his eyes. “No need to cry,” he said.

            “I wasn’t crying,” said Sherlock. “Now will you please snog the hell out of me?”

            “Absolutely not,” said John. “Not until you’ve brushed your teeth. I can count the number of times you threw up last night on two hands.”

 

            Sherlock cleaned up, took a shower, brushed his teeth, and called his home from John’s house phone to let someone know where he was. When he hung up, he looked at John, annoyed.

            “Satisfied? Now Mummy knows her baby boy is safe and sound, not that she cared,” he said. John smiled and took Sherlock’s hand, leading him back upstairs.

            “I’m satisfied,” he said. “I’m also bloody exhausted. Want to take a nap with me?” Sherlock’s heart leapt. He nodded and pushed John up the steps toward his bedroom.

            John’s double bed was a bit on the small side, but they both fit. Sherlock snuggled up behind John, trembling a little with the knowledge that he was allowed to do this now. John reached over and pulled one of Sherlock’s arms around him, kissing the knuckles on his hand. Sherlock couldn’t stop himself. It was like he was high all over again, but this time, he was high on John’s touch. His lips descended onto John’s neck, peppering little kisses against his skin.

            John hummed with approval. He turned in Sherlock’s arms and stared into Sherlock’s eyes for a moment, before his gaze fell to Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock could hear his heart thudding painfully in his ears; his whole body was vibrating with nervous energy. Oh God, he wanted John so much, _right now_. John leaned up and pressed his lips against Sherlock’s.

            Sherlock had never kissed anyone before. He’d given blowjobs and bottomed for people in return for cocaine or rides places or other things he deemed ‘worth it,’ which was a lot. But this, this was brand new and electrifying. The soft pressure of John’s thin lips against his own, the strange feeling in his stomach that made his whole body sensitive, it was all intoxicating in a completely new way. Sherlock kissed him back, his lips parting unconsciously, and suddenly, John’s tongue pressed against his own.

            He let out a gasp and grabbed John’s arm, pressing forward, kissing more fiercely. His tongue tangled with John’s, their teeth clicking together momentarily before John lowered his chin a bit to ease himself out of the kiss.

            He chuckled.

            “I’m glad you’re so eager,” he whispered, his lips brushing against Sherlock’s as he spoke. “But I really am exhausted. We can pick it up later, yeah?”

            “Mmm,” Sherlock replied, surrendering. John snuggled back under Sherlock’s chin and was asleep in moments. Sherlock was awake for a little while longer (his body needed more sleep as well, to recover from the night before), and as he drifted off, he ran his fingers through John’s hair, marveling at the softness and relishing the fact that John was now _his_.

 

            The weeks that followed were the best of Sherlock’s whole life. Everywhere he and John went, their hands were entwined. He met all of John’s school friends, who were painfully dull, but John liked them, so he was on his best behavior. They all accepted John’s relationship with Sherlock without a thought. Some weren’t even surprised. A few threatened Sherlock not to break John’s heart, and while he assured them he wouldn’t, their words sometimes came to him in the night, motivating himself to be the best partner he could be for John.

            At the end of the summer, he and John would be separating again for school. Sherlock wondered if Father or Mycroft could pull some strings to get John into Oxford with him. Or maybe Sherlock would stuff the prestige and go to school with John. When he brought the idea up, John was adamant that everything remained as it was.

            “We’ve done our applications, and this was what we chose,” he said. “I’m positive, bloody _positive_ , that we’re going to be fine with the separation. We’ve been apart for most of our friendship,” John reminded him. “And look at us.”

            John had a point. They would see each other, still, at breaks. Sherlock would graduate and choose some profession and John would continue on into medical school. Sherlock could move to London then and maybe they could live together.

            The most difficult thing was telling their parents. Mostly John’s parents. Harry didn’t care too much, being a closeted lesbian herself, but John’s mother and father took some explaining and coaxing, but after a few days, they realized that they just wanted their son to be happy.

            Sherlock told his own family over Sunday breakfast.

            “Oh, Sherlock, you’re up,” said Mummy, smiling at him happily. “I haven’t seen you at breakfast since you were twelve.” Sherlock shrugged and sat down at his usual place, across from father, between Mycroft and Mummy. It already felt like an interrogation even though he hadn’t said anything.

            He piled his plate with food he had no interest in eating, and began to stuff his face anyway. He surreptitiously watched Mummy, who was eating her dainty breakfast slowly and carefully. Sherlock swallowed a mouthful of food.

            “I’m dating someone,” he said.

            “Oh, that’s lovely, Sherlock,” said Mummy, taking a sip of tea. “Who is it? Anyone we know?”

            “It’s John,” he said.

            Mycroft looked up from his porridge, ascertained that Sherlock was not playing any games, and then continued eating.

            “John?” repeated Mummy, confused. “John Watson, the neighbor boy?”

            “Yes,” said Sherlock, gritting his teeth. She said it like he and John had not been friends since they first met each other. “Him.”

            “Hm,” said Mummy. “Well, that’s nice. Don’t you agree, dear?” She prompted Sherlock’s father, who set down his newspaper.

            “What are we talking about?” he asked. Sherlock’s hands clenched his utensils.

            “Sherlock’s dating the neighbor Watson boy,” said Mummy pleasantly. Father sighed and went to pick up his newspaper again.

            “I’m serious, Father,” said Sherlock. “We’re together.”

            But his father said nothing. Sherlock threw down his utensils and stormed out of the breakfast room and out the front door, heading down the street to John’s house. He climbed the tree, as he had so many times, and knocked on John’s window.

            John didn’t respond, so he knocked again, louder. John jumped up in his bed, looking around, obviously disoriented. He began to lay back down, thinking he’d made it up in his head.

            “For God’s sake,” snarled Sherlock, knocking against the pane. John fell out of bed, and Sherlock cracked a smile.

            “Jesus Christ,” said John, raising the window. “Bloody scared me half to death.”

            “Sorry,” said Sherlock, who was not sorry at all. He climbed in, shut the window, and pushed John down onto his bed. He clambered on top of John and kissed him. He wanted John to make him forget his stupid family. John hummed beneath him, running his hands up Sherlock’s chest.

            “Let me brush my teeth, and then this wake up call can get even better,” said John, trying to push Sherlock off.

            “Don’t care,” said Sherlock, kissing him again.

            “Oh, but I care,” said John.

            John was back in a flash, and instead of resuming their previous position, John shoved Sherlock down by the shoulders, kissing aggressively along his neck. Sherlock tried to regain control, but he was quickly losing control of his own body, let alone being able to control John’s.

            John pulled Sherlock’s t-shirt up over his head and continued kissing down his front. Sherlock was already gasping, and when John cupped his hand around Sherlock’s bulging trousers, he let out a strangled plea.

            “Oh God, John,” he moaned, squeezing his eyes shut. John’s mouth descended onto Sherlock’s nipple, taking it between his teeth. Sherlock’s hips snapped upwards once before Sherlock managed to regain himself. John grinned and let go of Sherlock’s nipple, much to Sherlock’s displeasure.

            “ _John_ ,” he whined, but before he could continue, John kissed him hard, laying his body flat over top of Sherlock’s and grinding their erections together. Sherlock lost control. He reached up and pulled John down as tightly as possible, thrusting upward against John, desperate for more friction. John scrambled away for a moment and Sherlock nearly sobbed at the loss, but John merely pulled off his pajamas, and Sherlock took the hint, stripping off his own trousers and pants as quickly as he could manage.

            The skin-on-skin friction was _even better_. Sherlock spread his legs wide beneath John, meeting the thrusts eagerly. Above him, John was panting and gasping his name, and _fucking hell_ , John had never looked more gorgeous.

            “You – are – so – ah – _fucking_ – hot,” Sherlock panted, running his hands up John’s torso. “So _fucking_ gorgeous, I love you so _fucking_ much.”

            “You what?” asked John.

            “I _love you_ ,” repeated Sherlock. John’s thrusts were becoming erratic, rhythmless, and so Sherlock said it again: “I love you, I love you, _I love you_.” John gasped and came, spurting up Sherlock’s chest, and the sight was too much for him, and he followed John.

            “I love you too,” John whispered into his ear, kissing his jaw.

 

            It was not always happy, or easy. Sometimes, Sherlock was tired of seeing John’s stupid friends. He wanted John to himself for a night, but John already had plans. Sometimes, it was petty like that. Other times, though, it was serious.

            “J-John,” said Sherlock into the phone, and Harry gave John the phone. “John, John, help me, _help me_.” Sherlock was shivering, his body aching and nauseous thanks to the withdrawal. John was there in less than ten minutes, holding Sherlock through the sweats, the sobs, and the vomiting. He would whine for a hit and he knew it killed John but he could not stop, and he would apologize endlessly when the pain had passed.

            He hoped John knew how serious Sherlock was about their relationship.

 

            “Sherlock, dear, the phone is for you,” called Mummy. Sherlock followed her voice and took the receiver from her. The wink told him that it was John.

            “Hello,” he said, smiling in spite of himself.

            “It’s John.”           

            “I know,” he said.

            “My sister is in the hospital,” John said flatly, and Sherlock’s stomach clenched.

            “What happened?” asked Sherlock immediately.

            “She tried to kill herself,” said John, his voice breaking. “She drank a whole bottle of whiskey and took a bunch of sleeping pills.”

            “Is she alright?” Sherlock could not bring himself to ask John the real question. _Is she going to live?_

            “Yes,” said John, responding to the unsaid question. “They’re pumping her stomach now, but I just… I can’t believe I didn’t _notice_.”

            “She’s older,” said Sherlock. “She’s away all the time. You never see here. There was no evidence, John.”

            “She’s still my sister!” said John angry, and there was a muffled thump. John seemed to have punched the wall. “I should have known!”

            “I’m coming over,” said Sherlock.

            “Please,” said John brokenly.

 

            It wasn’t that Sherlock hated France. In fact, he rather liked France. But Grandmamma lived in France, and he _hated_ Grandmamma. She was aggravatingly particular about her things be in specific places. She chastised Sherlock for not keeping his room clean and other rubbish like that. She adored fat, perfect Mycroft for growing up into such a fat, perfect son. She gave Sherlock the side-eye like he was going to steal something. Like he wanted any of her stupid possessions. (Except maybe the Strad…)

            He sat in the bathtub at Grandmamma’s, thinking of John, trying futilely to overcome the shaking, sweating discomfort of withdrawal. Oh, mother fucking hell, how much he wanted a fucking hit, just one snort, he would be fine forever if he could just have _one more hit_.

            It wouldn’t even be that hard to get some. John would never know. He hadn’t come to France with Sherlock because he wanted to be with his sister. It would be so easy. And he’d never tried French cocaine before. Maybe it was _better_.

            Yes, it was a perfect plan. He leapt up out of the tub hurried into his bedroom. He pulled on some unobtrusive clothes and carefully climbed out of the window and down the wall.

            He managed to get some cocaine injected into his system, no snorting required. It coursed through his system, singing in his veins, and it was wonderful. Definitely worth the risk. He fell asleep on a bench on the side of the road on his way back to Grandmamma’s villa. Mycroft found him the next morning.

            Mummy cried. Father gave Sherlock a disappointed look. Grandmamma gave him a stern, lengthy lecture on honoring your parents and self-respect and the perils of addiction. Sherlock tried to ignore it, but his headache made it difficult and the sense of shame deep in his gut made it _impossible_.

 

            It was raining. How painfully cliché. Sherlock didn’t bother with an umbrella and he didn’t bother running. He walked from his house down the street and around the corner to John’s, getting drenched in the process. He knocked on the door. Mrs. Watson opened it, smiling when she saw Sherlock on the other side.

            “Oh, hello, Sherlock!” she said, moving back. “Come on in, dear. You are _soaked_! Do you need a towel? Some hot tea?”

            “No, thank you, Mrs. Watson,” Sherlock said. “Is John upstairs?”

            “In his room, dear, go on up,” said Mrs. Watson, smiling at him fondly. There weren’t many adults who liked Sherlock, but Mrs. Watson was one of the few. Sherlock climbed the stairs with a growing sense of dread. John was going to be angry.

            He knocked on John’s door, and after a quiet moment, John opened it and grinned at him.

            “Look at what the cat dragged in,” he said, laughing. “Lord, do you want  a towel? Why didn’t you take an umbrella?” Sherlock shrugged and made to sit down on John’s bed.            “Whoa!” said John, grabbing Sherlock before he could sit. “You’re not sitting on my bed all wet. Why don’t you take these off,” John suggested, waggling his eyebrows, “and I’ll warm you up.”

            “I can’t,” said Sherlock, and something in his voice gave John pause.

            “Are you alright?” he asked, sounding a bit nervous. Sherlock shook his head. “Oh, no, are you feeling sick again? Come here, love.” It was true, Sherlock was feeling sick and it was from withdrawal, but it was new and fresh again instead of slowly losing its potency. Sherlock buried his face in his hands and did not move towards John.

            “I need to tell you something,” Sherlock gasped. He could feel himself shaking. He wasn’t sure if it was from terror or cold. Possibly both.

            “Sherlock, you’re scaring me now,” said John. “Sit down.”

            “On your bed?” asked Sherlock, confused. Hadn’t John just told him _not_ to sit there?

            “Yes, on my bed,” said John. “It’s not actually a big deal.” Sherlock chuckled and chose to remain standing.

            “I just got back from France today,” he began. “Something happened… while I was in France.”

            “What is it? Are you alright?” asked John, his brow crinkling with concern. Sherlock laughed outright.

            “I got high,” he said. “I broke my promise and I got high and I fucked up. My family found out and my brother knows how… how serious it was, before you stopped it. He wants me to go to rehab, but I told him to stuff it because I can handle it, I really can, as long –”

            “Obviously,” said John, and his voice was low and dangerous, and Sherlock shut up immediately. “You cannot handle it.”

            “You didn’t let me finish,” said Sherlock quickly. “I can handle it as long as –”

            “No,” said John, standing up and staring at Sherlock. His face was blank, shocked, but his eyes betrayed him – he was hurt. “No, Sherlock. You promised me. I told you, anything and everything, if you stayed off the drugs.”

            “It was one mistake,” pleaded Sherlock. This was turning into his worst nightmare. “I fell off the horse, or bandwagon, or whatever the phrase is! I can fix it still! I hated it, it felt good when I did it but as soon as I woke up in the morning I felt… sick and… _ashamed_ , John!”

            “Good!” he snapped. Sherlock had no idea what to say to that. He stared at John. They were quiet for a moment.

            “Please don’t give up on us,” Sherlock said quietly. John snorted.

            “There’s no _us_ anymore, Sherlock,” he said. “You killed that when you  decided to go behind my back and try to destroy your life. Were you not there, not three weeks ago, when my fucking sister tried to end her life with drugs? Did you not listen to me rant and rave about how angry it made me? Or did all of that go in one ear and out the other until we were fucking on my bed? No,” said John, raising a hand to stop Sherlock from speaking before he even started, “No. You’ve made your priorities clear. Having family troubles, not everything going your way right now, well then better get high!”

            “I was going through withdrawal!” moaned Sherlock.

            “You were getting better!” said John. “You told me yourself that you were past the point of _needing_ it!”

            “Well I hadn’t factored in my family’s ability to completely numb my brain!” yelled Sherlock. “John, I’m _sorry_! I didn’t want to do it! I wasn’t in my right mind! I missed you and it hurt and I just needed…”

            “What?” snarled John. “What did you need? Not me, obviously. Didn’t you think to call me? Or did your mind jump right to getting high again? I bet you even thought you didn’t have to tell me if you didn’t want to.”

            “Obviously I _did_ want to, or you wouldn’t know about it!” pointed out Sherlock. “I’m being honest! Would you rather I’d not told you?”

            “I’d rather you leave, now,” said John. “I’m not going to watch you destroy yourself. And us. I’m not going to be able to put you back together every time this happens. I’m not going to waste my time on a hopeless case.”

            Something cold was filling up Sherlock’s chest. He stared at John, unable to comprehend. In this room, where he and John had played and sat and cried and kissed, John was telling him now to get out, to never come back. He took an involuntary step backward, away from John, away from feeling like he was going to die right then and there.

            He ran. Down the stairs and out the front door into the rain. He ran back up towards the manor, around the large house and into the garden shed. He stayed there for a full two days before someone found him.

 

            Sherlock left for university early. There was no longer any reason to stay in Sussex. For the first week of class, he was higher than he can remember, and consequently didn’t remember much. When he ran out, he went to buy more. He opened his wallet and came face to face with the picture of himself and John from earlier in the summer. John was smiling with his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock felt his heart break in his chest just a bit more.

            “Well?” asked the dealer, impatient.

            Sherlock shut his wallet and walked away.

 

            “I have no idea where I left it!” groaned a student at the table beside Sherlock. “It’s due in an hour and I can’t find it!”

            “You’ll find it, mate, just keep looking.”

            “I’ve retraced my steps three times! I looked under my bed. I _cleaned my room_. I checked my backpack and all of my folders. It’s fucking gone and I’m going to fail the class.”

            “You left it at the library,” said Sherlock, unable to stop himself. The boy at the table next to him turned to look at him, surprised.

            “And how would you know that?” he asked.

            “Paper cuts all over your hands. You’ve been at the library for hours, maybe even days,” he said. “The pockets of your trousers are inside out. You left in a rush, and probably didn’t pack up your things carefully enough. Go check where you were sitting at the library. I bet it’s under a book.” The boy stared at him, a bemused expression on his face. Sherlock waited, and the boy shoved himself backwards and was up off his chair and running out the door.

            Fifteen minutes later, he was back, face flushed and a giant grin on his face.

            “I found it!” he exclaimed, flourishing a pile of papers. “It was right where this bloke said it would be! Thank you, mate, thank you so much!” Sherlock jumped, uncomfortable.

            “Think nothing of it,” he said quietly. The other boy at the table looked speculatively at Sherlock. He was dressed impeccably well, unlike the first boy, who probably could have passed for a fortunate homeless person.

            “What’s your name?” he asked.

            “Sherlock Holmes,” said Sherlock. The boy who lost his essay stuck out his hand in response.

            “Pleased to meet you,” he said. “Eddie van Coon.” Sherlock nodded.

            “Sebastian Wilkes,” said the other boy.

 

             His classmates were so dull it made him physically ill sometimes. The only person who was not a complete imbecile was Sebastian Wilkes, and even though he wasn’t a total idiot, he was a prick. After Sherlock first met him, he’d taken to inviting Sherlock out to parties and then subtly mocking Sherlock’s lack of social skills. But Sherlock had no one else to call a friend, so he accepted it.

            Eddie van Coon was a moron, but after Sherlock saved his grade from total annihilation, he was bizarrely attached to Sherlock. He was the only person at Sebastian’s parties who didn’t blatantly ridicule Sherlock. He even offered Sherlock a reward for finding his essay. Sherlock accepted that offer as well, though he preferred to call it a favour owed.

            The other students mostly left Sherlock to himself, and that was all he really wanted.

 

            Sherlock’s finals were deplorably simple. Sherlock scrawled his name at the top of his last exam, dropped it on the professor’s desk, and left his lecture hall. He had to go to his dorm room and pack some things.

            The only reason he was bothering to go home for the holidays was to possibly get a glimpse of John. His parents held large society parties during the Christmas season, and they usually invited the Watsons, whether out of neighborly duty or faux charity or simply to encourage him to attend, Sherlock did not know. This year, he was going to attend, and if John was there, he would be on his best behavior. If John wasn’t there, he was going to overturn the punch bowl and leave in a huff.

            Mycroft was there, in a black sedan, precisely at one to pick him up.

            “How were your finals?” he asked in a bored tone, scribbling down notes in a heavy looking ledger. Sherlock didn’t bother to reply. His brother didn’t care. “Good,” Mycroft muttered after a moment of silence.

            Sherlock spent the ride staring out the window.

 

            The ballroom looked immaculate, as always. There was a giant Christmas tree in the center of the room, decorated exquisitely and tastefully. There was tinsel and garlands and mistletoe hung and all of the local high society was there to drink and talk about money. Tedious. Sherlock sat where he could watch the entrance in case John came.

            The Watsons arrived around eight, though Sherlock did not see John enter with his parents and sister. Sherlock’s heart twisted painfully and he got up, headed for the punch table. He poured himself a glass of the (spiked, by one of Father’s co-workers) punch, downing it quickly and refilling the cup. He headed back to where he’d been sitting, but someone else had taken his seat. He clenched his jaw until he realized exactly whose shoulders he was staring at.

            He dropped the cup of punch. His heart was racing in his chest. John was here, he was _here_ , and he was sitting at the table Sherlock had been sitting at. He wasn’t sure how to proceed. Had John seen him there, watched him get up, and then sat there in anticipation of Sherlock returning? Or had he just found an empty table, appropriate for avoiding Sherlock? Maybe he had only come because his parents wanted him to, or out of politeness. Maybe he had no interest in seeing Sherlock again, just like he’d said in August.

            John turned his head, scanning the crowd.  He turned around fully in his chair and immediately made eye contact with Sherlock, who was still standing there, arm up as though holding something, like an idiot. John froze, eyes widening. Sherlock couldn’t move.

            John stood up and gestured to the chair beside him, inviting Sherlock over. Sherlock took one hesitant step forward, but John did not move. He wasn’t offering Sherlock his seat and leaving. Sherlock sat down at the seat beside John, but scooted the seat away from him a bit, still nervous.

            “Hey,” said John after an awkward silence.

            “Hello,” said Sherlock cautiously. John smiled sadly at Sherlock’s tone.

            “How was your term?” John asked. Sherlock shrugged.

            “Fine,” he said.

            Sherlock’s heart was aching. He hadn’t seen or spoken to John in four months. It was the longest they’d ever gone without contact, and now it was so uncomfortable, trying to make pointless small talk.

            “How was yours?” Sherlock managed to say.

            “Fine,” said John. He looked away into the masses of people milling about Sherlock’s family ballroom. There were a few people dancing in the middle, near the hired band, a string quintet playing Christmas carols. Sherlock began drumming his fingers against his thigh to work off some of the nervous energy.

            “This is weird, isn’t it?” inquired John suddenly. Sherlock didn’t know what to say. It was uncomfortable, but it wasn’t _weird_. In fact, it was the most right he’d felt in ages. Being by John’s side, even in this awkward scenario, was better than not. John misread his silence.

            “Yeah,” he said, sighing. “I’ll go.”

            “No,” said Sherlock immediately. “You don’t have to go.”

            “Well, staying isn’t really doing either of us any good,” said John, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.

            “I’ve been going to rehab,” Sherlock blurted out. He was relieved that no one else heard, but John’s jaw dropped and he looked around in case someone was listening.

            “What?”

            “I’ve been going to… therapy, meetings, things like that,” said Sherlock, as though he were admitting a hideous secret. “I’m about to get my 99 Day badge or something. It’s pointless, counting the days, it just makes me angry, but I suppose… as the numbers get higher, it gets easier.”

            “That’s great, Sherlock,” said John.  Sherlock shrugged again, refusing to look John in the eye. “I suppose I came tonight,” John continued, “because I felt like I had to apologize.”

            “What for?” Sherlock raised his gaze to look at John, but John turned to look away instead.

            “I just… I overreacted,” said John. “I spent weeks going over that fight in my mind, and I felt awful. I wanted to write to you, or call you, or something, but I didn’t have your address or your number. And anyway, I guess it felt like it was something I should say in person.” John reached up and scratched the back of his neck. “I’m sorry,” he said.

            “You don’t –”

            “Yes, I do,” said John. “You made a mistake and I just… I blew it out of proportion. You did everything right. You admitted it was wrong and you were honest with me about it. You didn’t lie to me. You told me as soon as you could. How could I possibly ask for more than that? But I was so… I dunno, blinded. It was right after my sister and I was so afraid of losing her, and then you, and I just took it all out on you. You were just looking for forgiveness, and I didn’t give it. I blamed you. I’m sorry.”

            “It’s fine,” said Sherlock, his heart beating rapidly in his chest. “It’s alright.” John bit his lip.

            “It’s really not,” he said thickly, and he sounded as though he was about to cry. “Because I’ve missed you so much these past four months, and it was my own bloody fault. I need you back in my life, Sherlock. Please?”

            Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to breathe. He could feel the prickly sting of tears in his eyes and willed himself to keep control.

            “In what capacity?” he asked, using the last bit of air in his lungs. He inhaled heavily. His hands were shaking in his lap.

            “Anything,” said John. “Whatever you want. I just need you back.”

            “Are you sure?” asked Sherlock. He could hear his voice wavering. He only hoped it was less noticeable to John.

            “Please,” begged John. “You’re my best friend, and I still love you, even if you don’t love me anymore. Whatever you want, I promise, it’s fine, it’s all fine, just please, Sherlock –”

            Sherlock opened his eyes. His vision was blurred by tears threatening to fall. He laid a hand across John’s mouth, and John relaxed completely under his touch, his eyes sliding shut, his shoulder sagging with obvious relief.

            “The answer is yes,” said Sherlock. John opened his eyes and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and pulled his hand away from his mouth.

            “Yes?”

            “ _Yes_ ,” said Sherlock, trying to convey the multiple meanings in his tone. John’s face split into a grin, and he pulled Sherlock up to his feet, throwing his arms around Sherlock’s middle and hugging him close. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders and nuzzled against his neck, breathing in his scent and shivering with adrenaline. He felt a drop of moisture escape his eyes, sliding down the side of his face.

            “Thank god,” John moaned into Sherlock’s collarbone. “Thank god.”

            Sherlock was unable to stop himself. He pulled back and kissed John, and it felt like coming home. John’s hands immediately went to the back of Sherlock’s head, preventing him from moving away, as if Sherlock wanted to. In the process, John’s hand wiped away the only tear Sherlock had cried in almost ten years. He wanted more than just this kiss; he wanted to gather John up and make love to him right here on the table. Maybe they could, later. There were options.

            He pressed his whole body along John’s, determined to feel as much of him as he could. John kissed him back intensely, twining their tongues between their lips. Sherlock reached up and took one of John’s hands off the back of his head and laced their fingers together. John pulled away and looked Sherlock in the eyes.

            “I love you,” he whispered, and Sherlock shivered. He began mouthing his way along John’s strong jaw, and then down his neck. “I love you,” John said again. Sherlock pressed his face into John’s clavicle. John’s hands were caressing his back. “I love you,” he said for the third time.

            “Sherlock!” Sherlock ripped himself away from John unwillingly and was face to face with his father. John stiffened and Sherlock glared at his father defiantly. But Father only appraised John for a moment before addressing Sherlock again. “Your mother wants you to participate in one of the dances. She understands that asking for more is absurd, but you may consider it your Christmas gift to the family.” Father looked at John again, nodded, and walked away.

            Sherlock groaned. John chuckled. “Come on,” he said. “One dance, and you get to dance it with me, if you like. And then you’ll be done with Christmas obligations.” Sherlock sighed, irritated, but he took John’s hand and pulled him out onto the tiny dance floor. He made sure that they stayed to the side, mostly out of sight.

            John laid the hand that was not clasped with Sherlock’s against Sherlock’s bicep. Sherlock reached around John and laid his hand against John’s shoulder blade. They swayed in place for a few moments, Sherlock grumbling a little about the whole situation.

            “It’s kind of nice, though,” said John, cutting off Sherlock’s quiet rant. “Romantic.” Sherlock scoffed, but – though he’d never admit it – agreed internally. Instead of voicing it, Sherlock pulled John closer and laid his forehead against John’s. John grinned. As they swayed, John leaned up and pressed his lips against Sherlock’s.

            Sherlock forgot the room full of people, forgot that his family was watching, forgot everything except John’s lips against his. He let go of John’s shoulder blade and laid his palm against John’s cheek and kissed him.

            Suddenly, there was _applause_. Sherlock sprang back, and to his horror, they were in the middle of the dance floor, right in front of the giant Christmas tree. Everyone in the room was smiling and clapping in their direction. John was grinning, though he’d blushed. Sherlock didn’t know what to do. Sherlock’s drunken uncle walked up to him and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

            “Congra’lations, Sherly,” he said loudly. “I s’pose it was bound to happen, there’d be a homo in the family! But you found yourself a nice boy righ’ here! So proud, so proud!” John choked back a laugh and thanked Sherlock’s uncle, pulling him away and out of the spotlight. John led him upstairs to Sherlock’s own bedroom and out onto his tiny balcony.

            “You’ve got a bloody balcony in your room,” John said, shaking his head.

            “I didn’t ask for it,” said Sherlock, who was still red-faced with embarrassment. “It was just here.” John snorted. He leaned against the railing. It was starting to snow. From here, Sherlock and John could just make out the lights and decorations on John’s home.

            John reached out and took Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock marveled at the heat of John’s hand against his own. He glanced over at John, only to see that John was staring at him.

            “What?” he asked. John shook his head.

            “Nothing,” he said. “Just looking at you. I haven’t seen your face in so long. Call it… withdrawal.” Sherlock glared at John.

            “Hilarious,” he said. John chuckled.

            “Sorry, I won’t make any more jokes,” he said. “I’m just so happy to have you back, everything seems perfect. It’s like there’s nothing wrong in the world because I have you again.”

            “The sentiment is returned,” said Sherlock quietly, looking out at the snowy expanse. He turned to look at John. “I think I’m going to love you forever,” he said quietly. John grinned.

            “That sounds like a great arrangement to me,” he said, pulling Sherlock in for a kiss. Sherlock kissed John again, and despite the cold and the snow, Sherlock was warm.


End file.
